


Lifetime

by Jenski



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Death, Immortality, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:49:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1738508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenski/pseuds/Jenski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a lifetime spent in love, except Francis is immortal and Ivan is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lifetime

In twenty-six years of mortal life, Francis had not met someone who called him out for his mistakes. He knew many people, slept with many people, loved many people—but not one person had ever warned him for his poor decisions, never advised against him making them. 

No one had ever cared that much. He had full rein over what he chose to do with himself. Sometimes he forgot to consider right from wrong.

It was all the mirror's fault. 

Since he was a boy, Francis had always obsessed over his appearance. His parents were models. All they ever did was pamper him, dote on him and ensure that he'd grow to be a beautiful child—and those were only his blossoming stages. When puberty loomed, Francis had already heard of the demons known as _acne_ and _deep voices_ like the one Papa had.

The boy's fingers would always touch lightly to his face, and then to his throat, imagining himself bearing little red boils all over his skin and speaking with the deepest voice anyone had ever heard. It all made him shiver.

He thought his parents were helping him. As he grew older, the attention that either guardian paid to him dwindled. It wasn't abnormal that their attention strayed and they cared only for gussying themselves up, spending hours in front of mirrors as if their feet were shackled there. And as Francis's cognitive development advanced, he thought that was how they wanted him to spend all his time. Perhaps that was how all mothers and fathers were supposed to be. 

For a while, that was where he did spend his time. At least until his parents said goodbye and left for the night—sometimes even the whole day, too—leaving him with a babysitter. Parading his various outfits and shoes that were too big for him was fun for a while. When Francis was told that he didn't have to become a model, he didn't listen.

When he was eighteen, he didn't become a model.

When he was twenty, his parents stopped caring.

When he was twenty-five, his obsession grew. The world was not all models and beautiful people but he was irreversibly stuck on such a toxic idea—an idea that _he_ would fall victim to ill-aging, to debilitating illness, to _anything_ that would spoil his appearance. 

No one had ever cared that much, but he did. Lovers told him he was beautiful and he believed them—but how long until that ran out?

A single decision was made on a whim. If his appearance remained young and handsome as it was, not only for years to come but for _eternity_ , what would he have to worry about?

When he was twenty-six, Francis took unhealthy measures to find someone. He was not born into a world void of magic, no—there were whispers of people who bore a power that changed fates. Immortality and eternal youth were not unheard of. When he did find them, he expressed little hesitation in accepting that change. From that point on, Francis Bonnefoy would _always_ appear twenty-six. He would never die and he would never age.

He relished all of it. For the next ten years, not one downside crossed the Frenchman's mind. The small print of his decision had all been omitted, tossed into the locked safe in the back of his mind. 

No one advised against immortality. The people that Francis met came and went, and not one turned the Frenchman's mind over to common sense.

The only person to ever challenge Francis's decision was someone he had met at the spiritual age of thirty-six. 

\---

Ivan was in his twenties. Twenty-three to be precise. The Russian tended at a pub that Francis had only recently stumbled upon. The Frenchman's intentions at that time were not far from the usual—he exuded natural charm with his introduction and flirted with the tall, burly bartender the rest of that evening.

Each of Ivan's mannerisms were slowly coming to surface. His violet stare was incredulous when he suspected that Francis was merely another drunk trying to lure him home—but each thing Francis said and each thing he did was so natural that Ivan doubted himself. 

Ivan was pure, a loner that nobody there knew much about. In the face of such a connoisseur, he couldn't help his getting flustered. Francis took note each time the Russian reached to fiddle with his tie, each time those eyes averted to look for (but never find) someone else. Ivan never knew what to say in return, but he believed each and every compliment that Francis offered him.

He believed them even more each time Francis came back. The Frenchman made a point to visit Ivan each following evening. The things he had to say, the stories he had to tell, the pick-up lines and silly compliments he had to give Ivan—they never ran dry. Ivan found himself looking forward to each of his visits, and soon he valued Francis as much more than a pub patron.

Weeks past and Ivan started getting to know Francis outside of work. They visited each others' homes (Ivan felt a sting of envy that Francis's was so much nicer and wealthier than his own, but he didn't care to ask how), went on dates to countless places. Francis worked only at Ivan's preferred pace.

Ivan had no idea that Francis was different. Francis always held his tongue on the topic of... youth, beauty, immortality. He didn't anticipate he'd end up growing so close to Ivan.

It just happened.

And as it happened, he found it more and more difficult to decide on _how_ to tell the Russian. Where would such a thing as that fit into conversation? He was supposed to be an _expert_ at communication. 

He just held it back a little longer.

Years climbed on and the two were helplessly in love. Francis was always smug about one particular detail: he had taken a few of Ivan's firsts. Ivan's first kiss was taken by another lucky soul, but Francis had taken his first time in bed, his first time moving in with someone, his first time getting _engaged_.

The Frenchman knew a lot about Ivan by then. His favorite colors, his favorite foods, his favorite flower—and so he made especially sure that the ring he bought resembled a sunflower. The marriage ceremony that followed was certainly abound with them.  
Anything to see that bright grin of his.

As Ivan went into his thirties, he brought up a comment—a meaningless thing—about the unlikeliness that Francis would lose any of his present beauty when they grew older. Ivan had never gotten over how dazzling his husband was. His hair alone was something to envy. Everything he did felt flawless, experienced, undeniably loving—Ivan had never been so enamored.

That comment startled Francis. Oh, that was one great mistake. He had been so wrapped up in this domestic life, one which he had _never_ expected to find, that he had forgotten his... being. What he really was now.

When he explained, Ivan did not take it lightly. The Russian, for a moment, felt stupid. He blamed Francis for being selfish and that wasn't anything Francis would forget.

Selfish.

_“When I die,_ you _are still going to be alive. And before I die, I-- I-I am just”_ Francis won't ever forget the crack in Ivan's voice there, either; the fear in his voice when he spoke of death _“going to know that you will be upset. You will be broken. Y-you might even go through it again. I do not want to let that happen to you.”_

Oh, but he had to. Francis couldn't go back and change things now. He tried.

–--

Ivan knew he couldn't be mad at Francis for it. He had to be there for him. He was too attached to let go now, and that attachment would only grow as their time went on. Thirties. Forties. Fifties.

Francis watched as Ivan progressed through each decade, aging into a handsome, older Russian man. They did not part once. Anniversaries passed and Francis was as beautiful as he was when they first met. It would always be that way.

Francis took it upon himself to spoil his partner. He took him to every place he saw fit—the beach, the aquarium, even a planetarium. They were all delightful to the Russian. He could never tell which he loved more. The beach was most memorable for its warm sand, the hanging sun that met each turn of Ivan's head. Francis was the one to teach him how to swim, but he never liked the water. It was too unbearably cold.

Long after Ivan is gone, the shells that they collected would still be present in Francis's home. _Each time he'd look at them, he'd see gentle feet padding through and imprinting the damp sand, a curious finger pointing to the seagulls flying overhead or the boats way out oversea that almost looked like sharks. The soothe of rolling waves were hardly up to par with the beauty that was Ivan's accented voice._

The aquarium was always so... blue. Francis could remember that, too, because that blue—it was such a glowing, warm shade, too—shone and reflected off of Ivan's pale cheeks. Violet eyes were always so lost in those exhibits, viewing creatures large and small, quick and sluggish, with equal fascination.

The planetarium had been on more special occasions. Ivan had always loved space. He still kept books on it at home. _Now they collect dust, and Francis can't bear to touch them. They are but pages of endless knowledge that won't be absorbed by anyone._

But as Ivan grew older, it wasn't all beaches and amusement parks and natural exhibits. They had to slow their pace. Visits were paid to doctors' offices more often than Francis would like. He had to start pretending that Ivan was his father or something of that sort.

Sixties. Seventies. The only 'dates' Francis and Ivan could go on any more were walks to the park, or walks to the shoreline of the lake. Things were serene. An unspoken promise settled between them that Francis would have to let go soon.

But not that soon. Right?

\---

He should have paid better attention to Ivan's drinking habits. Should have cracked down on it more often than he did. 

His health decline was evident. Francis's mind had never ran so rampant before those days he spent by Ivan's hospital bedside, listening to the steady beep of the heart monitor, holding a frail hand so gently in his own. Their talking was always quiet. They never discussed anything negative. Positivity, optimism—it was as strong in Ivan as it always had been. Ivan had always been afraid of death, too, but he knew he had to be strong for Francis then.

Francis hardly ever left his side. He watched the monitor often, observing the EKG waves. He wasn't absolutely certain on what they meant, but he knew to tell if something was going wrong.

The beeping made him anxious. Ivan's voice always calmed him.

Just focus on him. 

He was holding Ivan's left hand, stroking gently over his wedding band. Gold like a sunflower's petals. The metal was cool and so was Ivan's skin—and as Francis's fingers, perfectly smooth and sculpted as they always were, ran over wrinkled skin, he couldn't help thinking that Ivan was still perfect. He had aged wonderfully.

This would have been Francis if he didn't make that decision. Ivan would think nothing of Francis's aging. He knew that. Ivan would always find Francis perfect.

“If I knew you at that time, I wouldn't have done it.”

Admitting that, he still couldn't clear away the guilt.

When the heart monitor stopped, the hospital personnel rushed in and Francis, squeezing Ivan's hand in desperation, looming over him to call his name once, twice, three times, was ushered out of the room.

Please don't go.

His heart raced. The knot in his throat was hard to swallow and the tears weren't stopped.

\---

A sunflower is placed down on Ivan's grave. Francis's eyes scan the tombstone and its engraved words countless times, reading but refusing to let their meaning sink in.

It stares him in the face that Ivan was right.

The Frenchman's eyes move aside to view the space next to Ivan's, knowing that he will never fill that spot. Ivan's grave stands alone in a field of the dead, and Francis lives alone in a world of mortals, never once forgetting the violet-eyed sunshine that lit his existence and never once willing to move on.


End file.
